


Fireside

by Margo_Kim



Category: Elementary (TV)
Genre: F/F, Femslash, Femslash Yuletide 2013, Kidnapping, Pre-Femslash, Pre-Relationship
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-12-16
Updated: 2013-12-16
Packaged: 2018-01-04 19:30:00
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,277
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1084859
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Margo_Kim/pseuds/Margo_Kim
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When Moriarty turns fully from the window, as she slinks towards Joan, her face slips into the shadows, her blonde hair turns red in the light of the flames. She’s nothing but what she wants at that moment to be, thinks the part of Joan that always stands back and observes, the part that doesn’t mind the cold dread numbing the rest of her. And the thought comforts her some, just enough to sit up a little straighter. Joan is constant as a rock, after all, and she can’t help but think that if nothing else a rock can bash most things to death.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Fireside

**Author's Note:**

> Originally posted at [my tumblr](http://margotkim.tumblr.com/post/68757266812/by-the-fire-femslash-yuletide-elementary)

"Do you like it?" Moriarty asks with that little quirk of a smile that suggests that she doesn’t much care if you do or don’t. Through the window, the flames from across the street flicker orange across her face. The lighting suits her. "No one was inside, if your conscience is twinging. Your Ms. Hudson didn’t come in to work on time. Just as well. I don’t need a death to serve my purpose.”

"And what purpose is that?” Joan spits the question. It’s a hell of a feat to sound confident when you’re tied to a chair, but she does her damnedest.

When Moriarty turns fully from the window, as she slinks towards Joan, her face slips into the shadows, her blonde hair turns red in the light of the flames. She’s nothing but what she wants at that moment to be, thinks the part of Joan that always stands back and observes, the part that doesn’t mind the cold dread numbing the rest of her. And the thought comforts her some, just enough to sit up a little straighter. Joan is constant as a rock, after all and she can’t help but think that if nothing else a rock can bash most things to death.

Moriarty crouches between Joan’s feet and smiles up at her. “I’m sending a message,” she says. She clasps her hands in front of her and studies Joan like a particularly interesting work of art or a puzzling crime scene. Joan wishes that she hadn’t worn a bun this afternoon, that she’d left her hair free to fan about her otherwise bare neck. That seems like more protection than she has now, as Moriarty’s eyes rake down her skin.

“What message?” Joan asks because the silence draws her like a prisoner on the rack. That, and the fact that if you’re going to try and slip your hands free from the ropes binding them, it might be a good idea to keep your captor’s attention elsewhere.

Moriarty rests one elbow on Joan’s tensed thigh and leans her head on her hand. “You’re smarter than I once thought,” she says. “Deduce it.”

Sirens scream in the distance. The firefighters are coming. Maybe they can save the brownstone, a distant part of Joan hopes. All her stuff’s in there. Thought that is, of course, not priority number one at the moment.

"Sherlock will find you.”

Moriarty doesn’t seem particularly intimidated. “Just him? Come now, I’ve upgraded you in my estimation. Don’t downgrade yourself in your own. Oh yes,” she adds after Joan can’t help but show her surprise, “I’m not going to kill you today. I don’t believe in gloating beforehand. It just slows one down on one’s way to the fun part. No, Ms. Watson, you’ll live. Sherlock too, even, if he’s clever enough to solve one simple puzzle before he drowns. In all truth, it’s an insult to his intelligence, but I have been in Riker’s these last seven months. I thought he might be out of practice with his nemesis locked away. Does he miss me?”

"No."

"Liar." Moriarty smiles again and rests the hand with the gun on Joan’s other thigh. The barrel is long enough to just touch Joan’s stomach, right at the break where her shirt meets her pants. "Did you miss me?"

Joan presses her lips tighter together, but she can’t help but flinch when Moriarty prods the muzzle against Joan’s skin. “If you’re not going to kill me,” she says, her voice cold as gunmetal, “don’t fake the threat.”

“There are a multitude of enjoyable experiences that we could share that fall short of death,” Moriarty says mildly. “I suspect you would not like them as much as me. Although,” and here she pauses, her eyes flicking up and down Joan from head to toe in a way that chills Joan as much as the increasing pressure of the gun, “you are admirably adaptable, Ms. Watson. It’s your finest quality. So perhaps I could train you yet. Still, I’d advise you to hold my interest.”

“You seem capable of entertaining yourself.”

Moriarty’s eyes narrow so slightly that Joan wonders if she was supposed to notice. “You wouldn’t want me to entertain myself.”

It’s not hard to be brave when you’re tied to a chair with a madwoman stabbing a gun into your gut. In fact, Joan reasons, it’s really your only option. “I know you’re not going to hurt me.”

Moriarty cocks her head, and Joan knows she’s right. “And why’s that?”

“Our relationship’s just getting started,” Joan says. “You’ll drag the pain out a bit more. You’re petty like that.”

Moriarty scoffs. “Don’t insult me. You mean that I’m cruel, and that’s true, very true. But I am not petty. The world’s petty. Normal people are petty. You and Sherlock and I—we’re grand.”

It’s a stupid, stupid, stupid thing, but for a second Joan’s flattered to be included in the list.

Joan flinches again as she hears the clatter of the gun dropping on the floor, but she holds herself perfectly still as Moriarty lifts Joan’s shirt just enough to look at where the gun had been. “Look,” Moriarty says cheerfully, her index finger running across the circular impression dug in Joan’s skin, “I left a mark.”

"I did miss you," Joan says. Behind her back, Joan’s fingers feel like they’re bleeding, but she’s nearly pulled out the knot. "I forgot what evil looked like for a little while."

Moriarty’s eyes are bright as the flames the firefighters across the street are setting out. “You ought to be painted,” she says as she presses down on Joan’s thighs and rises to meet her face to face. “With the right eye and the right hand, you could be quite the masterpiece.”

“I’m fine, thanks.” Their faces are so close that their noses bump. “I don’t think a copyist has much to offer me.” Joan does not draw back. She knows a challenge when she sees one.

But apparently what she doesn’t recognize on sight is a distraction, and she freezes as Moriarty reaches around Joan and grabs her almost free hands. It’s a gross parody of an embrace. It might actually be simply an embrace.  ”You beat me,” Moriarty says, her mouth pressed to Joan’s ear as she reties the knot. “That makes you interesting. And there’s a dearth of interesting things in the world. Do you know my message now?”

“There’s nowhere we’re safe from you until you’re dead.”

Moriarty tugs the rope tight. “I’ll take from you everything that isn’t me, and you’ll thank me for the honor.” As she straightens, she touches Joan’s cheek softly enough that it almost doesn’t feel like a master stroking her pet. “I’ll see you soon, Ms. Watson. When we’re all getting bored.”

“I’ll catch you,” Joan says.

Moriarty chucks her chin. “Not if I kill you first.”

As Moriarty disappears into the shadows behind Joan’s back, out the door and down the stairs until Joan can’t hear her feet anymore, Joan thinks about how the words in Moriarty’s mouth made it sound almost, and nothing, like a date. And as she sets herself back to getting herself free, because Sherlock might be drowning somewhere and she needs to rectify that, Joan realizes that for the first time she understands beyond an intellectual sense why Sherlock can’t drag himself away from loving the woman. It’s the same way a man with his foot in a bear trap might not have the strength to just cut the damn thing off. It’s the same way a fire can make you gasp with beauty before it burns you alive.  


End file.
